


Hannigram flash-fics

by goldleaf1066



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Barbecue, Boyfriends, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Trouble, Crack, Crack Taken Seriously, Dinner Conversation, Dogs, Drabbles, First Date, First Kiss, Flash fics, Fluff, Great British Bake Off AU, Hannigram - Freeform, Junk Food - Freeform, M/M, Makeover, Massage, Motel room, Murder Husbands, Nice Hannibal, Pissy!Hannibal, Post-WOTL, RST, Sassy!Will, Sharing a Bed, Shopping Trip, Snowball Fight, Sunburn, Team Sassy Science (Hannibal), UST, Will scrubs up well, Will's mom - Freeform, Winston - Freeform, a spoonful of sass helps the medicine go down, dark themes, everything is people, honeymoon suite, one shots, ongoing, prompt exchange, soft-PWP, vague relationship status
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 06:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19043398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldleaf1066/pseuds/goldleaf1066
Summary: A not-entirely-serious-but-we-are-serious-about-crack flash-fic swap between myself and TheFierceBeast - we give each other a prompt then write flash-fics based on them.All Hannigram on my side, with various levels of sass, murder, UST, fluff and crack depending on the brief!(Rating/tags will be updated as new pieces added.)





	1. You Play or You Die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheFierceBeast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/gifts).



> This is a project of quickly escalating/stupid flash-fic shenanigans between myself (Hannibal) and TheFierceBeast (Gotham) and I am so ready for this. We each give the other a prompt, the more ridiculous the better, and post the results.
> 
> Please check out TheFierceBeast's writing - it is pitch-perfect and absolutely sublime (Gotham, Supernatural and more!)
> 
>  
> 
> Prompt 1: Hannibal playing tiddlywinks.

_Plink._

_Plink._

The storm was easing off now, only the drip-drip from the overhang above the window. The apartment was borrowed, a temporary hideaway. 

_Plink._

Will sat up. The sound wasn’t rain, he realised, but coming from the next room. He swung his legs off the edge of the bed onto a cold floor. No carpets, not many possessions here in this stop-gap-place.

He walked into the living room. Hannibal was perched on the couch, playing tiddlywinks on the coffee table. 

Will stopped in the doorway; the sight was unexpected, entrancing. He waited until Hannibal had successfully landed one of the winks into the cup before approaching, sitting beside him and folding his arms.

“’Pack light’, _you_ said.”

Hannibal frowned; a mis-aimed wink had skidded off the table and onto the floor by Will’s foot.

“You own nothing that is sentimental to you?” 

Will picked up the wink. It was smooth, a little off-white disc in the palm of his hand. Hard, but not plastic. 

Ivory, perhaps. 

Perhaps not.

“Is this what I think it is?” asked Will. Hannibal’s smile was subtle but smug. He tipped out the winks from the cup. They clattered and skated across the table-top like the froth of a lazy tide across the beach. 

“Shall we play?”


	2. Car Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2: Will's car breaks down in terrible weather. The only food in the car is Twinkies/Easy Cheese/disgusting American snack food of your choice. Does Hannibal eat it?

“Prognosis?”

Will has thumped down the hood and scrambled back into the drivers’ seat, shaking the blizzard from his hair all over everything in the car. His slam of the door is unsatisfying.

“Not great,” he says, scrolling through a cellphone menu with reddened fingers. “Thanks for your help by the way.”

Hannibal’s hands are folded over one knee. The passenger side window has a glimpse of the outside world wiped across it in a hand-sized smear. Not that there’s much to see: the blizzard is a full white-out. They are somewhere between Bethesda and nowhere, anywhere too far to walk to in this weather.

“My knowledge of cars is limited to driving them I’m afraid.” Hannibal wipes spattered drops of melted snow from his coat sleeve as Will speaks to the breakdown company.

“They said anything up to three hours.” Will shoves his phone back into his pocket, pulls his glasses off and runs his hand down his face then back up to push his hair from his eyes and forehead. It stays there, slicked back, damp and dark. 

An hour and a half later Hannibal sighs through his nose, glancing out of the window which is slowly steaming up again after repeated swipes of his palm. “I suppose we can forget about the beef bourguinon.”

“Yes, I think we can forget about the fucking beef bourguinon.” Will closes his eyes. “Sorry. This goddamn car.” He twists in the seat to look toward the trunk, remembering something. “Back in a second,” he says, leaving his glasses on the dashboard and disappearing out of the door again.

Hannibal regards the box tossed to him with significant disgust as Will re-enters the car.

“You _can_ eat them cold,” Will says, covered in snow again.

“Their temperature is not why I wouldn’t eat these, Will.”

“Suit yourself,” says Will, grabbing back the Pop-Tarts and sliding his thumb under the flap on the box-top. He’s demolished one and is sliding the second from its foil when orange light strobes against the snowfall in the distance up ahead.

“Our rescue approaches,” says Hannibal, “not a moment too soon.”

Will is holding the Pop-Tart in both hands like a prayer-book. “Your turn.”

Hannibal looks at him now, having pointedly averted his eyes during Will’s affront to their dinner plans. “It’s your car.”

“Remind me why I spend time with you again?” Will says, thrusting the untouched snack at Hannibal who takes it between thumb and forefinger and opens his mouth to retort. But Will’s already vanished again into the frozen wind, his silhouette against the lights of the tow-truck distorted like a B-movie spectre.

He reappears after a few minutes, ducking his head back in. “You’ll need to get out. We can ride up front.” He gestures to the vehicle reversing slowly toward them. 

“If we must,” says Hannibal. He deposits the pastry on the dashboard and gets out of the car, pulling his coat around himself unhappily. His trudge to the sanctuary of the truck is a brisk one.

Will is turning to join him when he remembers his glasses. He finds them where he left them on the dashboard. If he notices the bite taken from the second Pop-Tart he doesn’t mention it when he slides into the tow-truck cabin. Hannibal, shoulder-to-shoulder and thigh-against-thigh with him, doesn’t say anything either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me? Great! Strap yourself in because it can only go downhill from here!


	3. A Little Accident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Putting the prompt for this one in the end notes as it's included in the fic verbatim so it's sort of a spoiler, ha.)

“Morning. Speaking to me yet?”

Hannibal is lying on his side facing away from Will. It’s hard to tell if he’s awake yet; he’s either ignoring Will’s nudging or lost in dreams. Will suspects the former.

He moves closer, spooning him. Slips his arm around his waist, pushes his nose into the hair at the nape of Hannibal’s neck. He gets a grumble for his efforts and not much else.

Outside the open bedroom door Winston sits looking in. It was a compromise Will made, more or less happily. No dogs in the bedroom. Winston cocks his head as if still working out why Hannibal is allowed in Will’s bed but he isn’t.

“Hey,” Will says, “I get enough silent treatment from the dead.”

A great sigh. Will props himself up on an elbow, looking down at Hannibal’s profile. His gaze is a one-eyed glare from his peripheral and his bed-hair is theatrical, sticking up at right angles and statically to the pillow. Will pulls him over onto his back and hears Winston whine from the threshold.

“I'm sorry he pooped in your shoe. It's how he shows love.” The look Hannibal throws him would sour milk. Will reaches to smooth down his hair, then covers his cheek with a palm. Hannibal’s eyes are still narrowed, but he softens when Will moves in and kisses him, delicate and slow, just a press of lip against lip.

“If it was anyone else…” Hannibal says against Will’s mouth.

Will smiles. “Just be happy I don’t take after my pets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of schmaltz. I'm sure there will be a LOT more to come soon! Pissy!Hannibal is my spirit animal.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)
> 
>  
> 
> Prompt: I'm sorry he pooped in your shoe. It's how he shows love.


	4. First Date Nerves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: person of your choice gives either Will or Hanni a makeover of some description.

“So, spill.”

“It’s just someone from work.”

A pause during which the traffic lights cycle from red to green.

“That’s all I’m getting?” Beverly Katz signals left, rolling her eyes. Will Graham stares ahead, regretting this already.

“Yes.”

“Do I know them?”

“Probably not.”

“Literally the worst lie I’ve heard today.” Car parked, Beverly turns to Will in the passenger seat. “I expected at least some gossip outta this deal. Tweedle-Jim and Tweedle-Zee texted me seven times this morning already between them wanting to know how you got a life.”

Will undoes his seatbelt and shrugs. “I’m buying you lunch.”

“You bet your ass you’re buying me lunch.”

-

Three hours. Three hours of trailing after Beverly through menswear departments and standing in front of mirrors with shirt after tie after blazer held up in front of him. Being thrust into changing rooms. Being tsked at. Hmm. Maybe. No. _God_ no.

“But I actually like this one,” Will says. The shirt is a deep burgundy, the cut not ‘too frou-frou’ like the last three.

“You look like you’re going to a wake.”

“Didn’t know _we_ were dating.”

“Ha.” Beverly stands with arms akimbo. “This would be a lot easier if you’d tell me what you’re doing on this date. Or who you’re-“

“I’m getting this one,” Will interrupts, heading back toward the changing room cubicle, “then we’re done.”

“We’re done when I say we’re done, Mr. Mystery. There’s still your hair to fix.”

It’s hard to slam a curtain shut but Will manages it. 

-

“What do you think, Winston?”

Will doesn’t even own a full-length mirror. He’s wearing the new shirt and some old dress pants which are probably inoffensive enough. He can’t find his tie so decides he’s choosing not to wear one. Probably too formal anyway, for him, too tempting to strangle himself on the drive over to avoid making a fool of himself. Winston gazes at him in silence.

“You just want dinner, huh?”

Winston barks, tail thudding.

-

Neither of them had said the word ‘date’. Will is standing on a front doorstep, ringing the doorbell. His jacket he’s folded over one arm, his glasses he’s left in the car. His hair, after Beverley’s interfering, is no shorter but styled back with pomade, an errant curl poised against his forehead unwilling to be straightened. He sees movement inside through the glass of the door and swallows. He doesn’t misread intentions, it’s _the_ thing he’s good at, so why is he so warm suddenly, why is his mouth dry, why is he second-guessing himself as he rapidly runs out of time to turn back?

The door opens. 

“Good evening, Will,” Hannibal says, but there is a hesitation just before he speaks that’s not usually there. Will notices it, knows Hannibal notices him noticing it. Knows Hannibal has noticed the effort he’s made, knows Hannibal is smart enough to know _why_.

“Please, come in.”

Will can feel Hannibal’s eyes all over him as he steps past him into his hallway. It feels good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is honestly the best cure for any writers' block ever and I am enjoying this way too much <3


	5. Rosemary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hannibal tripping on a cracked paving slab and hoping nobody noticed.

If only he’d had it seen to when he first noticed it months ago. If only he’d gotten the rosemary before his dinner guests had arrived. If only he’d switched on the garden lights. If only he had the patience to maintain a lawn instead.

These are the regrets of Hannibal Lecter in mid-air as he catches his toe on the cracked patio slab in his back garden and feels the ground rush up to meet him uninvited.

The landing is as dignified as a goose on ice. He catches himself on both palms, jarring his elbows. His knee knocks against the concrete, but it could be worse. His hair is falling from its coiffure but it’s salvageable if he can slip into the downstairs bathroom en route to the dining room. 

He’s back on his feet, dusting himself off and turning back to the house when he remembers he was only halfway to the herb garden. Warily, he makes it there and back unscathed this time. His ankle is very sore but he daren’t limp.

At the dinner table Jack Crawford nods at the bunched rosemary in Hannibal’s hand as he seat himself again. Will Graham, opposite, is staring at his plate so hard he’s going to wear off the gilt pattern around the edge.

“Do you grow these yourself, doctor?” asks Jack.

“On my recent journey to Italy I met with an old friend who gifted me with seeds of his own herb varieties. I was pleased to find they’ve flourished just as well in my garden.” Hannibal is very aware of the French doors behind him that face onto the yard. Why didn’t he close the curtains? 

Jack is impressed. “Well, I’m very glad you went to the effort.”

Will has a death grip on the cutlery, biting his lip.

“What do you think, Will?” says Jack. Hannibal is careful to keep his eyes on his supper. It’s dark outside, and light in here. Doubtful anyone saw anything, really.

Will releases his fork carefully, lifts his head, composed. 

“It’s delicious,” he says, then looks at Hannibal. “So, tell us all about your trip.”

Jack suddenly finds something on the ceiling very interesting. Will is all innocence, hands folded on his placemat and rare unbroken eye-contact, waiting. Hannibal would kick him under the table if he thought his ankle wouldn’t crumple.

Maybe it's worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Will Graham speaks and no-one is around to hear him is it still s a s s ?


	6. Honeymoon Suite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "That's not my hand."

“It’s colder in here than it is outside.”

“I find that hard to believe,” says Hannibal, closing the motel room door behind them, “but it’s certainly inclement.”

Will dumps his bag on the solitary armchair. “I can see my breath.”

“Point ceded.”

December, festive except it’s not. Five frozen bodies, five hours standing in the snow before being shooed away to sleep. A mix-up at a middle-of-nowhere mediocre motel. The honeymoon suite.

“At least we’ve got champagne,” Will says, lifting the bottle and scrutinising the label. “Can it even be a vintage if it’s from this year?”

Hannibal doesn’t dignify it with any clarification. He pulls off his scarf and folds it nearly on the bedside table. Singular. One bed, pushed into the corner. Big enough for two, of course. No rose petals; they’d probably have frozen like the ‘Congratulations!’ on the receptionist’s lips when they’d taken the keys. Will had nearly asked who was going to carry whom over the threshold until he saw Hannibal’s expression.

They fall asleep separately, on their backs, no pillow talk. When Will opens his eyes in the night he’s shaking and the comforter not so comforting. 

“Hannibal, are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“If you’re as cold as I am we could-“

“Yes,” says Hannibal, and Will can feel his shivers too as they coalesce, arms around one another, calves between calves. In the space between Hannibal’s chin and the pillow Will buries his face. Hannibal’s heart thuds against his own. Sharing body-heat, Will thinks, was a good idea. He’s warming up already. A lot.

“Could you move your hand?” Will asks. It’s never like the movies; there’s always some part of someone jammed in an uncomfortable position against someone else.

“That’s not my hand.”

Will untucks his head, and there’s just enough light to make out Hannibal’s face a few inches in front of him. Hannibal is looking at him, and Will scrambles to think of the normal response, what he should be saying. The silence is way too long to salvage now. 

Their noses brush against one another.

All of a sudden, the cold doesn’t matter anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Hannigram fic I've been working on on and off for about three years that starts off more or less like the above (with a motel and sharing a bed) but as it's not likely I'll ever finish it I'm okay with plagiarising myself :P
> 
> This is sort of soft-PWP but I promise at some point I'll actually write something where the action happens IN the fic <3


	7. Snowball Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: snowball fight (extra points if it takes place the day after 'that's not my hand')
> 
>  
> 
> This is in the same universe and follows on directly from 'Honeymoon Suite'. Gimme dem pointz.

“Here come the newlyweds,” Brian Zeller says loudly, leaning against his car. “Did the good doctor make an honest man of you?”

Will bites down his retort. He knows he’s joking, but he does have a forensics degree. Details are his thing, too. Hannibal ignores the jibe with a smile and nods good morning to him, continuing past Will toward his own vehicle.

“Zee, can you help me with this thing?” Jimmy Price is manhandling some equipment in the trunk. Brian turns to assist, and Will, struck by the urge, scrapes a handful of snow from the hood and aims it at the back of Brian’s-

“Is this the goddamn schoolyard?” Jack Crawford materialises at Will’s shoulder and his snowball flies off-course, landing on the ground by the scientists’ feet. 

“What the hell was that?” Jimmy mutters, sticking his head out then quickly back in. “Headmaster's here.”

“Uh,” says Will.

“Do I have to remind you that people have died?” Jack’s anger is embers, really, but Will’s face colours. He can see Hannibal from the corner of his eye by the Bentley, watching his chastisement with what he hopes is amusement and not disappointment. Hannibal seems the type to go either way. 

Will hopes he’s not blown it. One-night-stands have never been his thing.

“No,” he says. “Sorry.” He won’t even blame Brian Zeller for it, however on-the-nose he was.

“Then we’ll move on. They’re opening the scene again in twenty; I want you all there in ten.” Jack gives Will one last pointed look before heading to the motel reception, presumably to settle the bill on the company card.

Jimmy and Brian have had their heads in that car trunk for far longer than necessary. Will is about to offer his assistance when something cold and wet hits him squarely in the ass. 

He whips around, brushing the snow from his pants. Hannibal is still by his car, in the same position. His eyes betray nothing, but Will can see his hands and their snow-reddened fingers. 

“Oh, it is on,” he says, throwing a glance over his shoulder to make sure Jack is safely out of eyeshot. He grabs two messy handfuls of snow from a car roof and makes a break for it. 

Hannibal is fast, but Will has the advantage. His first shot misses by a country mile. The second doesn't.

Maybe he's blown it now. 

Hannibal's grin says otherwise.

“Zee, FaceTime Katz,” Jimmy is standing with arms folded, somewhat agog. “She’s not going to believe this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #reckoning
> 
> Also car, vehicle, trunk, hood, Bentley, car trunk, car, car roof THESAURUS PLEASE


	8. A Guide to Bird-Finding East of the Mississippi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Meet the family (it isn't allowed to be the dogs :p)
> 
>  
> 
> Spoiler: there's a dog.

It’s lying there amongst the junk-mail and bills as Will shoulders the door open, arms full of groceries, case files and a radio he’d taken to town to match a part for and forgotten about in the back of his car.

He scoops up the mail after he’s deposited everything with a clatter in the kitchen. An orange threatens to wobble off the edge but instead rolls back on itself and teeters. 

A pamphlet of coupons for Trader Joe’s, a bill that he knows is from the gas company before opening it because it’s addressed to a B. Graham because they’d misheard him on the phone when he’d set up the account. A flyer for roof repairs.

And then.

A letter, neatly hand-addressed to Mr. William Graham. 

Something sparks at the back of Will’s memory like a dying lighter. He puts away the fruit, dog biscuits, toilet paper. 

He picks up the radio and the letter and sits on the couch, opening the envelope and laying the letter out flat on the coffee table.

It takes him until the third paragraph, skim-reading, distractedly rummaging in the radio’s innards, before his brain flicks a switch and the recognition slams into him like a freight train. 

A note on his father’s fridge that had been there until Will moved out for college. 

Digging in old boxes in the cupboard under the stairs in the Biloxi house and finding love letters from the sixties.

Will had never known her, but he knows this handwriting like he remembers all the words to Every Rose Has Its Thorn even though he’s blocked out that high school talent show performance and all recognition of his thirteen year old self on that goddamn stage.

He flips the page over and there it is:

_I’d write that I hope this letter finds you well, but if it finds you at all I will be glad._

_Yours in optimism,_

_Claire E. Graham_

And below that, _(mom)_.

There’s a phone number written along the bottom of the paper. 

Will calls Hannibal instead.

-

“You told me during our first therapy session that your mother died soon after you were born.”

“That’s what I thought.”

A pause.

“Would you like me to come over?”

“Please.”

-

Hannibal makes coffee while Will percolates on the couch.

“What would you do?”

Hannibal considers this as he stirs sugar into Will’s cup. “Anything,” he says eventually, “for a chance to see my mother again.”

Will grimaces. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

Hannibal smiles, forgiving. “This is a bolt from the blue. I’d be more surprised if you were thinking straight.”

“It’s shocking. I feel I should be angry, now. You can’t blame someone for dying. Leaving is different. She’s a stranger. She could have been living here in Wolf Trap all this time and I’d never know.”

Hannibal brings the coffee with him and sits beside Will. Will takes his mug and stares into it as if hoping for the answers to float to the surface.

“Have you spoken to your father about this?”

Will shakes his head. “He’s in some Winnebago somewhere.” He takes a sip. Too hot. “No signal. I guess I’ll ask him what the hell is going on whenever he rejoins civilisation.” He sighs and leans back against the throw pillows. “I just want to know why, and why now?”

Hannibal cradles his coffee in his fingers. “We both know there’s only one way to find either of those things out.”

Will glances at him. “Would you come with me? If?”

Hannibal puts his hand on Will’s thigh. His eyes are kind.

“Of course,” he says. “If.”

-

In the end he texts the number. If this is real, if this is his mother back from the never-being-dead, Will doesn’t want his first impression of her voice to be a version squawking at him from a cell-phone earpiece.

She, Claire E. Graham, his mom, whoever, replies almost right away. It’s been almost a week since the letter appeared on his doormat. Will wonders if she’s been sitting by the phone, desperate to hear from him, or if it’s just coincidence. Or if it’s some scammer jumping up like a shot at Will’s taking of the bait. A scammer with an extremely niche penchant for copying handwriting from a shopping list stuck to a beige Hotpoint in a kitchen in Harrison County in 1976.

Claire is in Baltimore for a little while. They agree to meet at the weekend in the early afternoon. Her messages are friendly but formal; they have no relationship to fall back on and Will is at least a little reassured that she isn’t suddenly trying to make up for lost time with platitudes and conversation and _xoxo_ ’s. Will doesn’t even know what she looks like other than the few photographs in old albums that lie boxed in his attic somewhere, lugged halfway across the country and not looked at in decades. 

The image of his mother that he holds in his head, for whatever it’s worth, is from a photograph taken when she was a senior in college. Claire, his mother, at eighteen, with long hippy-ish dark hair in a centre-part, a barrette above each ear to pull back the waves from the same blue eyes Will sees in the mirror every morning. She’s smiling a straight-toothed American smile. In her hands, posed as if caught in the middle of reading, is a well-thumbed book with a red-necked grebe on the cover. 

Will wonders what they’ll have to talk about. He doubts that she’ll want to hear the retelling of his life from day one to now, but she’ll want to know the highlights. Or maybe she won’t. Maybe she doesn’t deserve to have them, but Will feels a sense of obligation all the same. Maybe he wants to tell her, a boyish need to have his mom be proud of him, of what’s he’s achieved, where he lives, whom he loves. If the only influence on his life is that she began it then that’s something to hold on to, right? 

Is that why the book is in his attic too? 

-

Hannibal drives them both into Baltimore and finds a parking spot near the entrance to Patterson Park. The car engine ticks quietly as it cools down. Hannibal lets Will do the same for a minute or two, before reaching over and unclicking his seatbelt for him.

“Sorry,” Will says, snapping to life.

“I’ll walk with you, if you like.”

Will nods. 

-

When he sees her sitting on a bench several yards up ahead, Will’s heart bangs inside his eardrums and he drifts to a halt on the path.

She’d told him she’d be wearing a red sweater, but he’d have recognised her anywhere. The same long hair, the same centre part. No barrettes, and more gray, but it’s his mother, and her red sweater has roses embroidered around the neckline, her long amber bead necklace pools in her lap under hands clasped around her cellphone. She must have seen Will’s _I’ll be there in ten_ message. A chocolate brown Labrador with a silly grin sits at her feet.

He turns to Hannibal beside him. “I think I’ll do this bit on my own, if that’s alright.” 

He’s not sure if his mother has seen them, and then it occurs to him that Claire will have no idea who he is until he introduces himself. He leans over and kisses Hannibal gently, a see you later peck.

Hannibal squeezes his hand.

-

“Bluebird, don’t you dar- aw, hell,” are the first words Will Graham, aged thirty-nine, hears his mother speak, to a dog. The first words Claire Elaine Graham hears from her son, though she doesn’t know it yet, are a laughing hello to that same brown Lab, lolling tongue sliding over his hands, great paws all over his midsection as she jumps up at him, tail flapping like a rudder through white-water.

“I’m so sorry,” says Claire, on her feet now and almost straddling Bluebird who is thrilled to have another person paying attention to her and about being a dog in general.

Will smiles. It’s feeling more and more right by the second. “It’s alright; I like dogs.” 

“Still,” Claire says, “she doesn’t normally forget her manners like this.” There’s that southern lilt. Will crouches in front of Bluebird to hide unexpected dampness in his eyes. He strokes the dog’s chin and she sits suddenly, edging forward inch by inch with Claire’s fingers hooked under her collar.

The decision is made for him. He holds out his free hand. “I’m Will.”

It takes a moment. Claire is reaching her hand out to shake and Will can see when it dawns on her. A widening of clear, blue eyes. A little gasp. Something is welling up inside Will, just an overwhelming jumble of unnameable emotion. He wasn’t quite prepared, has been oblivious to its build-up over the past four decades. Bluebird breaks free again, and Will has a ruckus of a moment of being bowled over by an enthusiastic Labrador while his hand and his mother’s meet somewhere in the middle.

There are tears on her cheek. “William,” she says. Will gets to his feet and they look at each other for long enough that Bluebird settles between their feet and yawns a big toothy yawn.

“There’s a lot I want to tell you,” says Claire. Her voice wavers only a little.

Will holds her hand between his. “Let’s go for a walk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal was barely in this story, oops. If it makes anyone feel any better they're totally boyfriends in this universe. 
> 
> Will's dad in a winnebago is in homage to [nice hannibal ficlets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5893291/chapters/13583782) by [emungere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere). I honestly read these every other month <3
> 
> P.S. I dunno if there is any actual established canon on Will's mother other than what's in the show :S


	9. The Technical Challenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Great British Bake-Off AU

They file out of the tent toward the house. The rain has finally stopped, and the camera crew are starting to pack up. 

“In my defense,” Will mutters, “I didn’t know what a Swiss roll was. I’m not sure I know now.”

Hannibal looks pained. He thinks back to Will’s attempt: a sad, deflated creation that resembled more a partially-melted exotic caterpillar than any recognisable central European dessert cake. It makes his own victory on the gingham altar a little bittersweet. The judges had heaped praise on Hannibal’s creation (“that spiral is exquisite, the presentation first class!”) and had been… _tactful_ when it came to the fruit of Will’s labours. There had been giggles echoing around the tent; Hannibal had smiled too, but when he’d glanced along the line of chairs and saw Will’s _I’m-smiling-but-please-kill-me expression_ , he’d bitten his tongue. 

The judges placed Will last, which surprised no-one. His Swiss blob looked as like to return to a liquid state at any moment. 

Will focuses on his feet as they cross the lawn and head up the stone steps. “I guess hanging out with you isn’t enough.”

“Osmosis wouldn't be my recommended method of learning to bake, no .” What Hannibal really wants to say is that Will’s Swiss roll is the worst thing he has ever seen formed by human hands. Tactfully.

When Will sighs, Hannibal takes pity. Will had been stressed from the word _bake!_. A deer in the headlights the moment he whisked off the sheet hiding the ingredients, even more bewildered when he looked over the recipe card. At one point he had more of the batter on his apron than in the mixing bowl, and not even stage-whispering the correct oven temperature and timings to him from the other side of the tent made Will’s panic lessen any. 

If only Will’s final product had been as tightly wound as he.

They’ve lagged behind; the rest of the bakers are up ahead, already moving indoors. Their tired but cheerful chatter about the next day’s challenge drifts back across the garden like the sound of a radio in upstairs room. “In my opinion, you’re good enough to eat,” says Hannibal, slipping his arm around Will’s waist.

“I’m sure you’re expecting a kiss for that,” says Will, leaning in, “but I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by TheFierceBeast and I's mutual adoration of [ John Lithgow's Swiss roll attempt](https://imgur.com/a/lfUbpdi) in a recent charity celeb episode of GBBO. Actual tears, to this day.


	10. The Right Stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: New Kids on the Block's 'You Got It (The Right Stuff)'

The upstairs neighbour was doing it again. Full volume, bassline rattling Hannibal’s teeth inside his head despite being mostly under the pillow.

_You got the right stuff, baby  
Love the way you turn me on_

“Will.” Muffled, through a clenched jaw.

“No.”

_You got the right stuff, baby  
You're the reason why I sing this song_

“Please.”

“Hannibal.”

“ _Will_.”

From above, for the third day running, the dulcet tones of a late 80’s boyband pulse down through the ceiling. For the third day running Hannibal looks set to break the rule they set themselves while they lay low.

Will is sitting up in bed, eating freshly chopped pineapple from a bowl with his fingers in his underpants and not much else. Sao Paulo, summer beating down. Inside _casa do assassinato_ air-con is non-existent and clothing mostly optional when not having anyone for dinner. 

He’s enjoying it, actually. He likes the heat, likes seeing it undo Hannibal, likes seeing him a little roughed up. Messy. Bed-hair, growing out a little now. Likes seeing how riled up he’s getting, finds it a pleasure now they’re both on the same side of the veil. 

Hannibal lifts his head and gives Will a look from the side of his eye so sharp it would core an apple. “I’m this close.”

“Low profile. You said.” Will bites into another chunk of pineapple. The juice runs down his fingers, coagulating in the spaces between his knuckles. When Hannibal opens his mouth to argue Will reaches over and puts his hand over it. “You promised.”

What’s visible of Hannibal’s expression is a gathering storm. Will meets his eyes, putting the empty bowl down in the bedclothes and moving closer, hand still clamped across the lower half of Hannibal’s face.

“I’ll go and speak to him.”

_Your first kiss was a sweet kiss_

He lifts his hand away and ducks in for a pineapple-flavoured kiss. Hannibal responds begrudgingly, eyes open. Will smiles against his teeth.

_Second kiss had a twist_

Will kisses him harder, pushing sticky fingers into Hannibal’s hair and grabbing a fistful of it. He twists his hand, forcing Hannibal to turn his head further toward him. Hannibal’s hand snakes into the dip of Will’s waist, he’s grasping him firmly, tugging him closer.

_Third and your fourth kiss  
I don't want to miss_

Will breaks away, picking up the bowl and climbing out of the bed. Hannibal lies on his front where Will left him, empty-handed and frowning.

“I’ll go speak to him,” Will says again. He puts the bowl on the bedside cabinet and starts looking for something to dress himself in. 

“Right now?”

Will glances up. Hannibal is propped up on his elbows. Will can see the sheen of sweat across his shoulders. He clambers back onto the mattress, kneeling beside him. Hannibal runs his hand from Will’s knee to his hip and back down; the hairs on Will's thigh awry in its wake. 

_The right stuff  
The right stuff_

“’Our song’” Will says wistfully. 

Hannibal pushes him off the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some post-WOTL murder boyfriends for your consideration <3<3<3
> 
> Pissy Hannibal is life fight me.


	11. 10 Things I Hate About Barbecue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sausage Sizzle
> 
> #straya

“I have papers to mark.”

Hannibal wags a finger at him, turning the sausages on the grill. “Now now, it’s for charity.” He glances at his wristwatch. “And it’s only been fifteen minutes.”

“Not sure this was necessary,” Will grumbles, gesturing to his apron, _Kiss the Cook_ emblazoned across the front in a looping script.

“I won that in a raffle, you know,” Hannibal says wistfully, spotting some potential customers meandering over from the building. “I thought it quite apt.”

“False advertising if you ask me.”

The Quantico Charity Sausage Sizzle soon heats up as lunchtime approaches and students, lecturers and the higher-ups drift across to the cookout area set up in a corner of the parking lot. 

Alana Bloom strides toward them and Will gives her a resigned look. 

She smiles over him. “Hello Hannibal, Will. What are these?”

“Sausages,” says Will.

“ _Thüringer Rostbratwurst_ , spiced with cardamom and marjoram,” Hannibal says, navigating enunciation with his usual Euro-finesse. “The grill is cooled with beer, not water,” he adds with what Will hopes isn’t a wink.

“How can I refuse? I’ll take two.” She fishes in her wallet for notes. “I’m representing Jack," she adds in explanation, “he was too busy to step away from his desk.”

Hannibal ignores Will’s expression, deftly serving Alana two _Bratwurst-mit-Brötchen_ and taking her payment in one elegant transaction. 

Later as Hannibal is packing away the last of the barbeque equipment, Will finishes tallying up the takings.

“Hannibal,” he says, surprised, “there’s almost four hundred dollars here.”

“I may have suggested an incentive to donating a little extra.”

Will frowns at Hannibal’s back as he loads a box of utensils into the trunk of his car. “What sort of incentive?”

“Apron-related.”

Will looks down at himself; he’s still wearing the offending article but his objection to it fades as comprehension dawns. Hannibal is spending far too much time arranging the contents in his car. A realisation snaps together inside Will like a relocated joint.

“How much did you donate?”

Hannibal manoeuvres out from under the open rear-door and looks at Will plainly, one hand on the latch, pausing before pulling it down. “Two hundred dollars.” The door thumps closed with a bang. There are still people milling around, getting into cars and heading home.

Will dusts himself down to give him one more moment to decide what’s happening here. “You could have just… asked,” he says at last, unsure how he would have reacted if Hannibal had done exactly that. Probably the same way: incredulous, awkward. Pleased.

“It was for a good cause,” Hannibal offers a little lamely. Will smiles, some uncanny feeling in his belly unfurling like an electric shock in slow-motion.

They stand there for a moment looking at each other, until Will shrugs and breaks the spell. Hannibal steps closer, and Will can only look at his mouth.

“Next time,” he says, tilting his face upward, “keep me in the loop.” He moves in first, kissing Hannibal firmly, then tenderly, then with a flicker of tongue, and then someone driving past honks their horn at them and they pull apart, the moment dissolving into embarrassed glances straight from the first act of some romantic comedy.

Hannibal huffs softly in laughter. “Next time.”

Will nods. “I’m keeping the apron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> P.S. sorry to any sausage connoisseurs/German-speakers I did bare minimum research for this :P


	12. Aloe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: (I can't find the original message but it was definitely about) sunburn

“I assume you didn’t heed my advice.” Hannibal’s expression is of mild concern, and more overtly one of I-told-you-so, though he’d never _say_ it.

Will bundles past him into the house insofar as he can do so without touching anything or have anything touch him. “If you think,” he says, half-way to the bathroom, “that it’s possible for someone to fall asleep to spite you,” he grabs the doorhandle, pulls it open, pauses mid-slam, “then I guess I don’t know you that well at all.”

Hannibal moves to the front door, which Will has left standing ajar in his delicate route out of the elements. He pushes it closed. “Would you like something for it?”

He turns, hands in pockets, to regard Will, who stands on the threshold to the bathroom with his shirt unbuttoned, hastily put back on and regretting it. Across his collarbone, the bridge of his nose, cheeks, and forehead, his skin throbs brightly like he’s caught in someone’s brake lights. From the way Will is standing, as if to have no part of his shirt actually in contact with his body, Hannibal surmises it’s a lot worse across his shoulders. 

“No,” Will says, and disappears behind the noise of the bathroom door meeting its frame. From within Hannibal soon hears the shower and bitten-back expletives when whatever part of his body Will angles under the stream reacts.

It’s not the sunburn that’s the root of Will’s mood, but it won’t have helped. 

The temperature only relents a little as the evening closes in. Hannibal sits by the empty fireplace, reading. A fan blows warm air listlessly around the room, its hum oscillating through the quiet like distant bees.

Will reappears around eight with a glass of whiskey and a fresh change of clothes. He sits gently in the chair opposite Hannibal, avoids leaning back. Something about the measured set of his jaw and the careful way he stepped around furniture indicates to Hannibal this isn’t the first glass. 

He turns the page. Will nurses the scotch, brooding, as he has done more or less for weeks now. Hannibal can feel the restlessness oozing from him like a lahar. 

“I never suggested you did it on purpose.”

“It would be hard to do it on purpose.”

“Masochism is not something you wear well.”

“And yet,” Will’s brow twitches, “here I am.”

Hannibal refuses to dig for whatever it is that rankles Will, buried beneath evasiveness and fight-picking. Will looks as if he wants an argument, poised in his chair, discontent burbling beneath his skin, but they’ve spent too long in tangled opposition. Will will relent, his rancour will pass, unresolved if need be. 

Will doesn’t look up at him. “Do you ever make mistakes?” He swallows a mouthful from the glass.

Hannibal finishes his paragraph before answering. “I’m not infallible, Will.”

“Was I a mistake?”

A deep mood, then. The same one. Hannibal closes the book, setting it beside him on the couch. Will meets his eye, his hair ruffling in the draft from the fan periodically.

“How would you feel if I said it?”

“I’m not sure if it would make me feel better one way or the other.” Will finishes the whiskey, stares at the bottom of the glass, sighs. “Baring my throat to you,” he adds, "is still something I have to remind myself I can do." Before Hannibal can respond Will places the glass down on the floor roughly and gestures to his face. “This really hurts.”

Hannibal nods. It’s probably as close as Will’s going to get to surrendering tonight.

They sit in Will’s bedroom where there’s a good lamp and a stool by the window. Hannibal opens it, letting the night breeze seep muggily in. Will perches on the stool, unbuttoning his shirt. Hannibal lifts it from his back and Will lets him, head drooping slightly. When Hannibal presses a palmful of aloe to Will’s shoulder blade his back arches. A hiss escapes his mouth from between clenched teeth.

Will’s sunburn isn’t the worst, but he feels hot under Hannibal’s touch, even through the cooling salve of the aloe. His shoulders are red, freckled, dusted lightly with hair. Hannibal runs his hand across the wing of Will’s shoulder and over the top, thumb pressing firmly against trapezius. Will is quiet, his breathing steady. 

“I didn’t realise the time,” Will says, as Hannibal steps around him to apply the balm to the necklace of scarlet across his collarbones. Will’s eyes track Hannibal’s hands as he lifts his face, allowing access. 

“Did you feel secure?”

“Content.”

“Sleep comes more easily when one’s guard comes down.”

“Is that why I’ve been sleeping better?”

Hannibal smiles, exhaling through his nostrils. Will closes his eyes.

“Do that again.” Hannibal runs a fresh scoop of aloe across Will’s clavicle, then blows across it, softly, a hand’s-breadth away. Will shivers. “That’s cold. And good.”

“What feels good to me,” Hannibal says, running his fingertips upward along the side of Will’s neck, “is that you’re letting me do it.”

Will takes a deep breath, letting it fall from his mouth like a stone. “I want you to do it.”

When he turns his head he and Hannibal are almost cheek to cheek. Hannibal lifts his fingers to Will’s forehead, a baptism performed against his scalded skin. Then he leans in, and kisses him there, quiet, fleeting.

Will’s mouth moves against Hannibal’s throat, but nothing intelligible makes it out. His hands curve around Hannibal’s upper arms. 

Hannibal straightens and moves away, and Will half-comes with him. 

“I was so tired,” Will says, reaching for him again. Hannibal takes his hands in his own, brings one rough-shod knuckle to his lips. “Of you.”

Hannibal’s eyes are trained on Will’s face, his weariness, his confusion mingling beneath a growing, coiled smoulder. Will’s hand opens against Hannibal’s jaw and Hannibal bites down on the papery membrane between thumb and forefinger. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough. Will only follows him, fingertips skating across Hannibal’s cheek as he backs them toward the bed.

“Tired,” he says, “of trying to forget you.” 

Hannibal’s words are mumbled through Will’s fingers, his gaze never leaving Will’s. “The conundrum of forgetting something you ache for.”

“I don’t want you to forget me.”

“Impossible,” Hannibal says. 

“I wish,” Will says, stepping closer, hand falling from Hannibal’s face to his chest, “that I hadn’t fallen asleep in the sun.” Their faces are very close, tilting and circling like vultures ready to commit to the plunge. When Will breathes out Hannibal breathes in.

“I can be very gentle,” Hannibal says. 

Will’s eyes are alight.

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably could have had more to do with sunburn and less to do with... whatever this is about.
> 
> Also grammar shmammar.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
>  
> 
> Side-note: all the stories take place in separate universes unless specified.


End file.
